SUNPENNY Writing Competitions: Stephanie Higgins, "My Heart Will Not Be Shattered"

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NOTES:

YOUNG WRITERS' SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
FIRST PLACE

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"My Heart Will Not Be Shattered"

by Stephanie Higgins (11 yrs) - Burnham, Buckinghamshire, UK
(Ages given are at time of entering the competition)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

STEPHANIE HIGGINS Stephanie Higgins is now twelve years old. She lives in Burnham, Buckinghamshire. Since she was little she has always loved books and spends a lot of time reading, which is why she enjoys writing so much. Stephanie says, "It’s the one way you can escape to another world and be a different person." Her favourite genre is historical fiction because it’s really interesting, you can learn about history and it includes lots of description. Stephanie was inspired to write My Heart will not be shattered by the events she read about what happened on The Night of Broken Glass. Her other interests are being with friends, shopping, listening to music on her ipod, singing, netball, cricket, and collecting miniatures for her doll’s house. One of Stephanie’s aspirations is to publish a novel and write stories for others to enjoy.

COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:

Good content with strong meaning and purpose. I like a story that has motivation and intent to convey a message. Strong writing and phrasing, good descriptive techniques, tight tension. As a reader I felt part of what was happening. Excellent research has gone into this historical story, too; the writer cares about her craft and the minutiae of making a story believable and richly woven. Be careful of over-use of adjectives; description is good, but don't go over the top (eg would a child look down and see "ruby lips" on her little sister?) Ending sentence lets it down a bit - perhaps because it's intended to go on as a longer piece? I could see this as part of a book? If not, think about how to end with a punch that matches the shocking death of her grandmother, rather than softens it. Convey urgency and fear with short, sharp sentences that are as hard as what you're writing about. Ending with the sentence you used would have been fine had there been something else after it that echoed the shock, a one-liner - or more to round off the tale.

Suggestion for this writer: read the winning story in the New Writers category; these two entries have much in common, both being historical, both ethnic, and both with a shock ending. "The Dream-Weaver's Son" is richly descriptive and uses adjectives that have power, and that author has handled the wind-down very skilfully. It may help you to see what I mean above.

THE STORY:

In the shadow laced room I could just make out Leah’s small body, snuggled under her patchwork blanket. There it was again. Crash! The same sort of crash that roused me earlier. Outside the wind was howling ferociously, the light of the moon dappling through our flimsy net curtains.

I glanced back at Leah and pulled back my covers so I could kneel beside her. Strewn gracefully over her plumped up pillow was her gorgeous chestnut hair and her ruby red lips wavered, showing up her lily-white skin. I began to stroke her soothingly. Her breath blew out in irregular cloudy puffs that seemed to make the shadows prance.

She clasped her stone cold hands around mine and whimpered. Burying her head in the mane of hair that draped over my chest, I carried her to my bed. Her gold Star of David chain glinted in the moonlight. In the end, she was nestled in-between, a multitude of love battered teddies and me.

Hushed voices floated in from outside and I crept towards the mysterious sound. The clock chimed two. It was only then that I realised how late it was.

Piteous crying filled the air- it was Herr Balder. Our Godfather. Our brave Godfather. Thoughts swirled round my mind until I thought it would burst. What was bald, comical Herr Balder doing at our house at this time of night -crying?

The tangled pieces, intertwined in my mind began to fit together as I stepped through the kitchen door. Two people who could almost be mistaken for strangers were sat down at the polished wooden table; Mama and Herr Balder. Noone appeared to notice my presence as I lurked at the back. Not the welcome my cheerful Mama never failed to give me ever since I could remember. Her long silken skirt and puffed sleeve blouse that she wore to the synagogue caught my eye. Had she not been to sleep at all yet?

“Oh you wouldn’t believe what they’re doing,” sobbed Herr Balder. I knew all too well who ‘they’ were. They were the Nazis.

“They are not missing one Jew’s house… furniture from Jewish shops rots in the gutters along with the goods from ours. To watch. To watch the synagogue burnt to smithereens along with the Holy books, along with the Torah is too much. Blazing bonfires line the streets swallowing up everything; nothing is sacred. And they say that this is only the start of things…” A look of despair was written in his eyes as he trailed off.

Mama’s lips were clamped tightly together, traces of lipstick smudged into thick clumps. I clambered onto her knees; trying to bring the mama I knew back.

“I’ll make some cocoa for everyone and we’ll all feel much better,” she offered, getting up to boil the kettle.

“Frau Bergmann, aside from cocoa, where is your husband? That is the worst thing. Herds of men are being gathered in the streets, plucked from their wives and children. Once they’re deported who knows what’ll happen…”

I noticed that goose bumps trailed down Mama’s skin as she nearly dropped the cocoa. Papa had not returned home that night.

“My husband could not enter back into Berlin tonight and is staying at a hotel owned by a work colleague.”

At that moment Amber, our golden retriever puppy came bounding in, her merry eyes twinkling. As always, a bemused looking Leah closely followed her.

“Amber’s frightened Mama and she won’t come back,” she whined.

Mama sighed. It was the first time that I’d seen her do something like that.

“Don’t worry so much darling,” she said, “ Herr Balder and I are up for a reason.” For the first time since she had entered the room Leah noticed Herr Balder, looking as much like a boiled egg as ever. Her inquisitive voice rang out again before Mama put a finger to her lips. Determined as she was, Leah tugged on my lace nightdress and asked why Herr Balder was there. I whispered to her that he had come to keep Mama company while Papa was away.

A familiar thumping filled my mind, like a throbbing headache, only worse. This wasn’t something you could get used to. It was growing louder, closer and closer until I realised what it was. ‘Them.’ Ever since ‘they’ had marched into our lives, everything had changed.

I remember when I first walked up to the writing display at school, proudly clutching my best story when I saw the notice: ‘ No Jew’s to display their work.’ Ripples of laughter shook the classroom as my teacher called out, “ No Jew can be good at German because they are not a true one.”

Timidly, I shuffled back to the desk that I shared with my best friend Kirsty, my head spinning. I smiled tentatively at her, expecting her to tell me to ignore the others or as such. Much to my surprise, she merely glanced the other way and smirked at the girls behind us. “ Jew stinker” one of them giggled. I told them that I was the Jew and they were the stinker.

“ I can’t talk to Jews,” she sniffed, high and mightily and that was the last time we sat next to each other. The day I lost the person I had loved most after my family. All because I was a Jew. Mama told me that I should not take it to heart but when Kirsty started crossing to the other side of the road from the road from me I could not help but show my misery her cold glare gave me.

When the winter frosts set in, all Jews were ordered to attend the nearest Jewish school to them. Ours was just out of the centre of Berlin. I could not catch the tram to Lek Lehka Jewish School by then. To my Mama’s dismay, Leah and I were forced to walk the three miles with only last winter’s pinching coats and boots. On the first day, we stopped to rest by Grossmutter Gretel’s milliners store when a young girl swept us away with her broom, pointing to the ‘ Jews are not welcome’ sign in the window. That was the very reason we couldn’t get another coat. At first I could not understand why kind-hearted Gretel would do such a thing. Papa was quick to question my glum face when we arrived home and he explained that if Grossmutter Gretel allowed Jew’s in her shop, it would mean great trouble for her.

As these memories stood vividly in my mind, the marching faded away and I went floppy with relief. Only to be startled by the tinkling sound of smashed glass, falling to the earth. Silence descended on us and for once even Leah was spellbound. Nobody moved as a grimy brick glided through the windowpane and onto the mosaic tiles. Frenetic commands of “Let us in,” littered the air as ‘they’ banged the door ferociously. Everyone’s gaze met Herr Balder’s eyes, as if pleading him to make a move. Frustrated by what they called ‘ our lack of respect,’ they shoved the door open and threw gravel at the red speckled glass panes. One catapulted through the air and hit the light bulb, leaving the lampshade swinging limply. Nazi torch beams flashed on immediately, glaring in our eyes. The harsh barks they spoke in were barely recognisable as German and I could see Leah was struggling to understand them.

“ Where is the man of the house Grandfather?” the tall, clean-shaven man yelled at Herr Balder. He looked as though he was ready to collapse but he merely told them that Papa was staying somewhere outside of Berlin. The two men who were left clutched their stomachs and doubled over with pretend laughter as if they were at a comedian show.

“ A Jew, at a hotel!” one of them sneered nastily. All of us sat cowering at the table, Leah crouching under it.

“ Then we have no other duties here,” the other one declared, flashing a torch on intermittently. I didn’t dare to breath, even after the promising news.

The other one span round on his patent shoes, squeaking on the newly polished floor, as if he were looking for something. My heart was fluttering wildly and I could almost hear it beat.

“ Ah, Frauline. What a lovely crockery collection you have there. It reminds me of my own mother’s too much,” one said in a suspiciously high voice. I wondered what sort of a mother would let their son behave like this. With a wink he paced towards the cabinet where Mama’s collection of plates was kept. Her hand was clamped over her azure eyes as he rolled up sleeves on the very uniform the soldiers were so proud of. With one sweep he had knocked the pattern-adorned plates that Mama cared for so tenderly onto the floor. I had always admired the fine twists and turns of the collection and wished fervently that Mama would let me help take care of them. So delicate were they that they reminded me of my gentle, wrinkle woven Grandmamma. She’d only just moved in with us. Father wouldn’t let her stay on her own in her flat with no one to care for her in the midst of war. How I’d always longed that one day they would be mine.

As the soft sound of silvery tinkles filled our ears, I watched on in devastation. Mama clutched her eyes and I whipped my palms over the top. I just stood glued to the ground as our precious family heirloom was smashed into a million splinters. They carpeted the floor, which had transformed into a shiny sea of glittering gemstones. I stood there in awe, dazzled by the multi coloured rainbow of light that it cast. There was just one piece left intact- Great Grandmother’s floral platter.

The men were exchanging glances, huge smirks on their faces as one of them leaned on the shelf with his elbow and swept it off.

“No,” I cried hysterically before I could stop myself. Mama shot her arms out and tried to shield me. The burly man jerked his head towards me, his eyes glinting like a crafty fox about to pounce on his unfortunate prey. I mustered up all my courage and screwed up my face at him and turned on my heels and bolted out of the room. Then all of a sudden, I stopped in my tracks. Grandmamma. In the heat of the moment I had completely forgotten about her, I had not yet grown used to the fact that she lived with us since Grandpapa died. She was attired in one of her long lacy white nightgowns, looking as pale as a ghost.

“Katrina,” she whispered under her breath and ran her bony fingers through my bushy hair. I could hear Amber’s frantic barks as she scampered towards us.

“ Pesky dog!” shouted one of the Nazis.

A long resounding shot rang out through the air, paralysing me. My head kept spinning, as the world grew fuzzy around me. Before my eyes Grandmamma collapsed into my hands, a trickle of red blood running down her face.

Grandmamma, gentle Grandmamma. She had been spared the horrors of the war to come…

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